


a blaze of silence

by hailingstars



Series: unbelievably unlikely (febuwhump 2020) [2]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Fever, Gen, Insomnia, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is a Mess, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Sickfic, Tony is alive, Trauma, febuwhump 2020, irondad to the rescue, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:46:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22530448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hailingstars/pseuds/hailingstars
Summary: “I thought Iron Man was retired,” said Peter, as Mr. Stark walked towards him.“He is,” he answered. The faceplate dissipated and revealed Mr. Stark’s face, wrinkled with concern. “Fortunately for you, Iron Dad will never retire. His kids have no survival instinct.”Mr. Stark kneeled down and patted Peter’s knee. “Sit up for me, will ya? Let me get you off this rooftop.”“Only if you promise to stop with the dad jokes.”“Can’t do it. It’s my favorite perk of the job.”orPeter is sick but chooses to go out on patrol anyways. Luckily Tony's always up for a rooftop rescue and inevitable chat that comes afterwards.febuwhump day 2: fever
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: unbelievably unlikely (febuwhump 2020) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619662
Comments: 35
Kudos: 529





	a blaze of silence

**Author's Note:**

> here's day twwwwoooooo
> 
> yesterday I forgot to say a big thanks to all the lovely people who listened to me whine about these fics throughout the entire month of January -seekrest -frostysunflowers -blondsak -ardenskyedarcy THANK YOU!! 
> 
> hope you enjoy !!!!!

Aunt May was always right.

No, wait, Peter thought. He shook the rain out of his hair as he stepped into his apartment building and the door swung shut behind him.

Aunt May was _usually_ right.

He couldn’t forget or forgive that time May told him in a serious manner that pineapple didn’t go on pizza. That was just wrong. It was blasphemous. Everything went on pizza.

She had been right, however much Peter didn’t want to admit it out loud or even silently to himself, earlier that day when she’d warned him he was too sick to go to school.

He spent the entire day achy and sneezy and cold. Everyone avoided him, including Ned and his teachers, one of which who made a show of mixing Emerg-C powder into a water bottle and chugging it before class started.

A bad day, an avoidable bad day, if he had just listened to his aunt, but she had asked an impossible thing. Peter couldn’t just stay home and rest. He couldn’t just let the silence surround him like that, even if he had a fever that threatened to force him.

Peter forced himself up the stairs and rejoiced when he stepped through his apartment door. Home at last. He adjusted the straps of his bookbag and locked eyes with May, who stood in the kitchen.

Still too stubborn to admit she’d been right, he simply groaned.

“Oh, Pete,” said May. She walked over to him and placed her hands on his cheeks. “You’re burning up.” She tapped his nose with her finger, before walking back into the kitchen and saying, “I told you so.”

Peter only offered another groan in response.

“Just go and lay down, okay?” she said, with a face full of concern. Her face looked like that a lot lately and it was completely Peter’s fault. “I’ll make you some soup.”

Peter slumped down the hall and into his bedroom, his mind hazy and feverish as he collapsed face first into his bed. His eyelids were heavy, but as much as he wanted to let himself drift off, to stay still, to surrender to rest, he couldn’t.

His Spidey alert screeched, and Peter scrambled up off his bed, grabbed his suit from his bookbag and stumbled around his bedroom as he attempted to change into it. Eventually, he managed it, though he lost balance and fell during the struggle, knocking the lamp off his desk.

He pulled on his mask and was immediately confronted by Karen’s voice of disapproval.

“Peter,” said Karen, as Peter was pulling open his bedroom window. “It’s unadvisable for you to go on patrol right now, as your body temperature indicates that you have a fever and scans show may have the flu.”

“It’s fine, Karen, I’ll be okay,” he told her. He was already crouched down, with his foot resting on the window seal.

“Mr. Stark will not be happy.”

“He won’t be the only one.”

His stomach gurgled at the thought of not Mr. Stark finding out, but May. She would, eventually, walk into an empty bedroom with a tray of soup in hand. He shook his head. Queens needed Spider-Man, and Peter Parker needed a distraction.

“Sorry, May,” he said, then let himself fall out his bedroom window, only to catch himself with a well-timed web.

He smiled under his mask. He could still do this, fever or not.

*

Peter couldn’t do this.

He was half-way through webbing up some petty thieves attempting to rob a gas station when he had to pull his mask up, just enough to expose his mouth, and throw up all over the lineoum floor.

“Gross, man,” said a man wearing a ski mask. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you to stay home when you’re sick? You’re gonna be infecting the entire city with that shit.”

Peter pulled his mask back down and webbed the guy to the wall, then shot another web to cover his gun and disable the weapon. “Hasn’t anyone ever taught you not to steal?”

He cringed at his own words. His banter was off its game, but at least his web-shooters still worked.

“Sorry about the floor!” he yelled out in a raspy voice, as he ignored his achy muscles and darted out of the gas station.

He shot a web at the high level of a nearby building, flung himself into the air and on the rooftop, where he collapsed down once he was on solid ground.

“You were right, Karen,” he said, turning over on his back and staring straight at the dark sky. “I should’ve stayed home.”

“I told you so, Peter.”

Peter groaned and groaned again when a small raindrop hit the tip of his nose. It was followed by bigger, faster, more frequent rain fall from the sky and attacked his body.

Thunder crackled and lightening lit up the sky. Was this karma? Or was the universe just trying to off him? Peter didn’t know, but he did know he rather lay there in the rain than try swinging back home when he was so, so dizzy and nauseous.

What happened next was either a miracle or another slap in the face from karma. Peter couldn’t decide. Iron Man appeared out of the stormy clouds and landed a few feet from where Peter laid on the ground. He blinked a few times, making sure his hero wasn’t a fever dream.

“I thought Iron Man was retired,” said Peter, as Mr. Stark walked towards him.

“He is,” he answered. The faceplate dissipated and revealed Mr. Stark’s face, wrinkled with concern. “Fortunately for you, Iron Dad will never retire. His kids have no survival instinct.”

Mr. Stark kneeled down and patted Peter’s knee. “Sit up for me, will ya? Let me get you off this rooftop.”

“Only if you promise to stop with the dad jokes.”

“Can’t do it. It’s my favorite perk of the job.”

Peter let Mr. Stark help him sit up, but even with the assist, the skyline tilted and the rainclouds blurred with the city lights. He wobbled where he sat, until Mr. Stark’s iron covered hand steadied him.

“Okay,” said Mr. Stark. “I’m gonna give you a lift down to the car.”

“That’s so embarrassing,” said Peter, but he didn’t try and stop him from lifting him up into the air with a strong grip under both his armpits.

“Should’ve thought about that before you jumped out your window with a fever, genius.”

The flight from the rooftop to the car was a short one, and within what felt like seconds, Mr. Stark helped him into the front seat of the Audi and shut the door. Peter took off his mask and immediately noticed what was wrong with scene, with the interior of the car. His duffel bag sat in the backseat, filled and zipped and wholly out of place.

When Mr. Stark got into the driver’s seat, his armor was gone, replaced by normal clothes.

“What’s my bag doing in your car?”

Mr. Stark started the engine and ignored the question. Thunder rumbled, the rain picked up speed and intensity. 

“Mr. Stark,” repeated Peter, though he didn’t feel up to anymore talking. His throat ached, and his stomach hurt like he might throw up again. “Why’s my bag in your car?”

Mr. Stark sighed and took his hands away from the wheel, finally looking back at Peter. “Your aunt and I thought it might be good for you to recover outside of the city.”

“Recover?”

The idea seemed ridiculous to Peter. He had a common sickness. Probably, he had the flu, or some other illness that would pass through his system in just a day or so. Recovery wasn’t for him. It was for people who were really hurt, people who needed time to return back to some form of normalcy.

That wasn’t Peter.

“Yeah, you know, some fresh air,” said Mr. Stark. “Some relaxation, some rest.”

“Oh,” said Peter. “No thanks.”

Mr. Stark blinked.

“I don’t want to.” He pulled the seatbelt over his body and clicked it into place. “Take me back to Queens.”

“That’s gonna be a negative, kid,” said Mr. Stark, while the engine ran idly, while the rain, thunder, and lightening carried on outside.

“I don’t even get a choice?”

“Not this time.”

Peter was too exhausted and too weak to feel properly show his anger. He couldn’t tell if he was hot from his fever or hot from his rage, if he was shaking because he felt so lousy or if it was because the unfairness of it all. He opened his mouth, ready to argue, but Mr. Stark shushed him in a low, but gentle tone.

“Do you really want this argument? You look like you’re about to pass out, Pete,” Mr. Stark told him. “This is happening, so just relax and settle in, we got a little bit of a drive.” He put his hands back on the wheel. “And let me if you’re going to be sick so I can pull over. I just got the smell out from when Gerald threw up in the backseat.”

On a different day, Peter might’ve asked what the alpaca had been doing in the backseat in the first place, but he was too sick and too angry to care. He let his head rest against the cool window, though he made sure his eyes stayed open while Tony drove them out of the city and towards the lake house.

The last thing he wanted to do was fall asleep.

*

Peter had Mr. Stark pull over three times, and all three times, the man got out of the car with him and held an umbrella while he puked his guts out.

It didn’t do any good.

The rain was fast, and the wind was hard, but Peter appreciated the gesture, even if he was still angry about his situation.

With all the pulling over, with all the rain, it took them longer to get to the lake house, and Peter was relieved once he stepped inside the doors of his second home, dripping rainwater all over the floor.

Familiar, lake house sounds greeted him like an old friend. The crackling of the fireplace, Morgan’s tiny feet pitter pattering on the floor above, the rain hitting the lake outside. He’d have to be careful. All those sounds made his shoulders loose, his eyelids heavy.

They threatened a lullaby, and he’d have to put his fingers in his ears.

Mr. Stark clapped him on his shoulder. “Alright, sicky, let’s get you off to bed.”

Peter tried not to let the dread he felt creep out from inside him and radiate in his posture. His body language, Michelle had once explained to him, was what gave him away the most. His face could be hidden behind Spidey and he was still a terrible liar.

He let Mr. Stark help him up the stairs, and then more stairs, to his bedroom in the attic.

Really, it was more like a hotel suite than an attic, and it was all Peter’s. Somehow Mr. Stark and Rhodey remodeled it to include a bathroom, a small living area and a large space for a king’s sized bed. May told Peter it was Mr. Stark’s way of saying he wished he’d visit more.

Peter hadn’t minded the bribe, until now, when he was being forced to stay.

He hoped by the time he came out from his bathroom, after having ditched his Spidey suit on the floor and changed into pajamas, that Mr. Stark might have wandered off back downstairs.

When he opened the door and found he was still in his bedroom, Peter mocked himself for thinking it’d be any different. Cleary his faulty thinking was a testament of how delirious he was. Mr. Stark would never miss the opportunity to hover.

Peter stood in the doorway of the bathroom, staring at Mr. Stark through his hazy eyes. He stared back.

“When are you gonna explain to me what’s got your aunt so worried,” started Mr. Stark, slowly, like he was being careful choosing his words. “That she called me instead of a doctor?”

Peter shrugged. He didn’t understand why they were playing this game. Mr. Stark knew something, whatever May had told him, and Peter only had a feeling he knew what that was.

He shuffled his feet. He played with the loose string on the rim of his sleeve and avoided making eye contact.

“It’s either talk or sleep,” Mr. Stark pressed.

Peter looked away from the floor and narrowed his eyes at him. It didn’t do any good, didn’t hold back the sudden surge of emotions he felt when he was confronted with the one thing he was avoiding most.

Sleep, the silencing of his mind, and where his thoughts were left to wander when they were free to roam.

“That’s the problem, huh? You can’t sleep.” Mr. Stark was urged on by the look of surprise on Peter’s face. “It’s obvious. Being sick is bad luck for most, but for you, with your freaky spider metabolism, it’s a glaring red warning sign that you need to cool it and rest.”

“I… I _can_ sleep,” said Peter, with a frown. He didn’t like that he was so easily read, even if he completely knew that he was. “I just don’t want to.”

“Nightmares?” asked Mr. Stark.

Peter shook his head.

Not nightmares, not really. It was the lack of noise, the lack of interruption. It was his brain going haywire in those moments before sleep, when there was nothing to distract him from the idea that sleep was a lot like being snapped. Nightmares came after, sometimes, but they weren’t the worst part.

At least during nightmares he knew he was still alive.

“It’s just, maybe I won’t wake up,” Peter told him. It was the simplest way to explain what was happening inside his head. “Or maybe when I do, everything will be different again.” ` 

“Different like how it was after you came back from the snap.”

“Yeah.”

Mr. Stark let out a low breath. “How long has it been?”

“Not counting all those times I dozed off in AP English?” asked Peter. The look on Mr. Stark’s face told him he wasn’t counting them. “Like two weeks, maybe.”

Then came the part that Peter hated.

It was the folded way Mr. Stark held his face, the tightness in his shoulders and his jaw, the way his heartrate picked up, hammering around in his chest. He was worried, just like May, and it seemed as though, try as he might, not even Spider-Man could stop them for worrying about him. Not even Spider-Man could ease the burden of his existence off the ones he loved.

“I’m – I’m sorry,” said Peter, the words flying out.

“Why are you apologizing?” There was an angry edge to Mr. Stark’s question, one that made Peter want to flinch.

“I, just, everything’s good, right? I’m back and May’s got Happy and they’re, well, _happy_ , and you’re here and Ms. Potts and Morgan –“ he stopped, realized he was rambling, and a took a second to breath. “Everything’s good now, Mr. Stark. You sacrificed so much to make everything good, but I’m not okay and I know I should be.”

“Kid,” said Mr. Stark. “That’s bullshit.”

“W-what?”

Mr. Stark shook his head, closed the gap between them, and guided him to bed, where they both sat down.

“Take it from someone who’s old as dust, nothing’s ever all okay at the same time, Pete,” said Mr. Stark. He squeezed his shoulder. “And I didn’t make those sacrifices to live in a world where I can’t help my kid when he’s hurting. You’re allowed to fall apart sometimes, you just gotta promise you’ll let us be there for you when you do.”

He pressed his hand against Peter’s forehead. “Like right now. You’re still burning up.”

Peter felt his stomach stir at the mention of his sickness, felt the heat beneath his skin and an ache behind his eyes. He glanced towards the fluffy pillows by the headboard, reminding himself he was exhausted, completely drained emotionally and physically. Shutting his eyes and getting so rest had never sounded so appetizing, if only he could trust the world. 

“Tell you what,” said Mr. Stark. “You sleep off this fever, and I’ll promise to be here when you wake up, so you can count on something being the same.”

“You can’t promise that.”

They both knew it was truth. Life was fragile, even without Thanos snapping his fingers, and either one of them could be gone a blink.

“Maybe not for forever,” he told him. “But I can promise for today.”

Peter’s eyes drifted back to the pillows. Maybe today was all he needed. Maybe he could take it one sleep at a time, one day at a time, and someday he’d learned to deal with all the changes the world had made those five years it spun on without him.

Besides, he didn’t have a choice. He was ready to pass out.

“Okay,” said Peter. He crawled up all the way on the bed and under the covers.

Mr. Stark wiped the hair from his forehead with his metal hand. “Rest well, kid. I’ll be over there –“ he titled his head over to the other side of the room, where a couch sat in front of a flat screen. “-watching a movie.”

“Keep the volume turned up.”

Mr. Stark nodded that he would, put his hand through his hair one last time, then left the bed and wandered over to the couch. Peter heard him switch on the TV, heard the hums of whatever sitcom he was watching, heard the steady rhythm of Mr. Stark’s heart.

It made a better lullaby than the rain on the lake or the crackle of the fireplace, it was the sound of a promise Peter knew he could count on. He let his eyes shut and he faded to black, finally surrendering to rest.

A couple hours later, when he woke up, his head was clear and his thoughts were slower, quieter. He sat up and looked around, spotting Mr. Stark fast asleep on the couch, the TV still playing.

Peter smiled, then fell back down into his pillows and pulled the comforter close, hoping to disappear into a blaze of silence, that, for once, and thanks to Mr. Stark, didn’t seem so scary, didn’t threaten him with thoughts of coming apart, turning into dust.

Instead it was beautiful and calm and only interrupted by the snores of his mentor-dad. He savored it, fell asleep it, and looked forward to a couple of days recovering.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading!! 
> 
> comments and/or kudos let me know what you think!! 
> 
> [or come shout at me on Tumblr](https://hailing-stars.tumblr.com)


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